


A State of Being Lost

by frith_in_thorns



Category: White Collar
Genre: Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:43:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frith_in_thorns/pseuds/frith_in_thorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chasing a delirious Neal over town wasn't exactly how Peter had been planning to spend his afternoon. Not that Neal was terribly happy to be chased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A State of Being Lost

They found Neal in what looked like an ordinary motel room.

It wasn't, of course — for one thing, motel rooms tended to have windows, and also to lack steel-reinforced doors with a lock only on the outside. But it had an en-suite and a microwave and a bed which Neal was lying on when they entered.

He looked up; stiffened.

"Hi, Neal," Peter said. "Took us a while to find you."

"Peter," Neal said, and sat up carefully. "This is unexpected."

Peter frowned, a bit stung. "You didn't think I'd track you down?" he asked.

Neal shrugged, slightly. His colour was high and he looked — well, he looked not great, really.

"Are you alright?" Peter asked.

Neal chuckled harshly. "Never better," he said, only now that Peter had taken a couple of steps towards him he could see the slight tremors in Neal's skin, the glassy sheen to his eyes. Which explained a lot about his odd attitude, since he _hated_ being sick and the vulnerability that came with it. The last time he had a cold he sulked around for days, snapping grumpily at people.

"Let's get you out of here," Peter said. When Neal made no immediate attempt to obey Peter took a firm grip on his upper arm and towed him off the bed and out the door.

Neal didn't say a word as they walked down the stairs, Jones tailing them, which Peter found rather worrying, especially with the heat he could feel baking through Neal's shirt. He had already made up his mind to drive Neal straight to someplace he could get checked by a doctor, and worry about getting his statement later.

"Give me a minute?" Neal pleaded when they reached where the FBI had parked. Peter nodded.

"Sure," he said, and released Neal, watching as he leaned heavily against the hood of the Taurus, taking deep breaths of the cool air, before turning to Jones. "Will be okay to cover me at the office for a while?"

"Of course," Jones said, with complete understanding.

Diana strode up. "Banks confessed," she said, with satisfaction. "So did Kay. Once they knew we had Caffrey's location they both fell over themselves trying to incriminate the other."

Peter grinned. "Now that's good news. You hear that, Neal?" He turned.

"Well, crap," Jones said.

Neal had vanished.

\- o -

Neal walks fast, messing his hair so it loses the parting and falls down over his forehead, unknots his tie and slips it in his pocket, undoes the top two buttons on his shirt. He stumbles on the sidewalk, bumps into people in the crowd. He feels hot and hazy, his thoughts falling in confused jumbles.

He's being chased. They locked him up and said they'd come back for him and they have. He needs Peter to solve this, Peter to untwist this, except they came back for him looking like Peter, a Peter who is tracking him down.

He isn't quite sure what he should be doing. He needs to — he needs to find somewhere that's safe. Which is more of a challenge than it first appears because everything's _wrong_ and he's being chased, which is not something that's supposed to be happening.

A smartly-dressed businessman is being obnoxious to a subordinate on his cell. Neal lifts his wallet easily and finds enough cash that he can breathe a little, now. Options. He has some options. He drops the lightened wallet back into one of the man's outer pockets because Peter's rubbed off on him enough for him to feel slightly guilty.

There's been enough crowds and intersections between him and the place where they were holding him that maybe he can be safe for a little while. Then Neal spots a police officer answering her radio and his stomach drops. Because if he's being chased by a Peter who is _wrong_ , that Peter might still be able to use official resources to try and find him.

He has to lean against a wall at this point. His head is pounding. And the gash across his ribs is being pulled hot and tight with every step; he thinks he should maybe be paying more attention to that.

There's a coffee shop just a few yards away, but first there's an electronics stand. He buys a phone, and then a mug of black coffee, and collapses into a shadowed corner booth where he's pretty sure he can see the street without being seen. It's odd how laboured his breathing is. And he's cold, but there's nothing he can do about that.

Mozzie answers on the fifth ring. "Who is this?"

"It's Neal," Neal says. Possibly he has a code name right now, but he can't remember it. "I need your help."

There's an odd noise in the background, but frankly it'd be stranger if there _wasn't_. "Are you okay?" Mozzie asks. "I hate to pry, but you don't sound good."

"I'm fine," Neal says, which he's gathered by now probably isn't true, but he doesn't have the energy to think about why not. "Has Peter contacted you?"

"Please," Mozzie says, loftily. "You think some suit would have my number? _Any_ of my numbers?" He pauses, clearly waiting for some riposte, but Neal just props his head on his hand and gulps coffee in the hope that it will make him feel less wiped out. "Okay," Mozzie says, his tone switching to serious. "What's going on?"

"I need a bolt-hole," Neal says. "I'm being chased, but there are no eyes on me right now."

"Who's after you? What's the Suit doing about it?" Clearly his expression of distrust a second ago has already been forgotten.

"No," Neal says, too quickly. "You can't tell anyone where I am. _Anyone_." He doesn't know how to explain what's happening, about Peter who he _knows_ isn't Peter.

"Neal," Mozzie says, "You don't hear this from me often, but I think you ought to calm down. Seriously, what's going on?"

"Moz," Neal insists, and Mozzie sighs heavily.

"Fine, fine," he says. "You owe me a full explanation, to be repaid in the future." He gives directions and Neal fixes them in his memory.

"Thanks," he says, and hangs up before Mozzie has a chance to reply. He should get moving.

However, standing turns out not to be a good idea. Everything lurches and Neal barely makes it to the restroom before he throws up all the coffee he's just drunk and everything else that was in his stomach. In the mirror his face is an unhealthy colour and he winces, just slightly out of vanity. He splashes his face with water and tries to take slow, deep breaths.

Outside, with the air-currents of an endless stream of traffic sweeping past him, he feels slightly better. Not much, but enough that getting to Mozzie's nearest safe-house is a viable prospect even though his legs are shaky and he has to keep blinking to clear his vision. _It'll be okay. It'll be okay._ He just needs time to rest, time to sort out what's going on, and he'll be fine. He always is.

He keeps a sharp eye out for cops, or anyone who's eyeing the flow of people a bit suspiciously. Or, well, as sharp an eye as he can manage, which he's aware is well below his usual standard.

It's called Green, this place, apparently. Neal taps the code into the keypad (and the next keypad) and stumbles inside. It's eerily similar to the place where they locked him in, after slashing him a bit to prove they were serious about wanting him to work for them, and he has to blink several times to be sure that no, this isn't the same place, this isn't a trap. Then he crosses straight to the sink which he has to lean against while he pours himself a glass of water, the surface of it shuddering choppily as he drinks.

Clearly Mozzie hasn't used this place in some time, if ever. It's stocked with the sorts of supplies that will survive the apocalypse (almost certainly on purpose). Neal looks briefly at the food cupboard but his stomach heaves and he shuts it quickly and hunts for a first-aid kit instead. It's prominently located and equally well-stocked. Sometimes paranoia is an advantage.

Neal had been intending to sink into the couch but it suddenly looks a long way away, so he collapses onto one of the hard chairs by the table instead. Then he unbuttons his shirt and rips off the dark-stained gauze beneath it without giving himself time to think.

That turns out to be a bad idea. There's a shock of pain which is momentarily blinding and he vomits onto the floor, bile and water, and when he's done he drops his head into his hands for long seconds that add up into minutes before he feels strong enough to sit up properly again.

The wound is weeping and inflamed. It was hardly a proper injury, a warning really, but now it hurts as if the knife was worked right the way through him. Neal holds his palm cautiously above it, not touching and feels the heat pouring off. _Infection,_ he knows, which is, well, _bad_.

Not that there's much he can do right now, while he's laying low. He manages to get back to the sink where he cleans the gash out as best he can, which seems to make it hurt even more, and swallows down painkillers and anti-inflammatories before stumbling back to the table to tape on a fresh pad of gauze. And then finally, _finally_ , he allows himself to fold down onto the softness of the couch, just for a moment, just a brief rest…

\- o -

Peter glared at the street for what felt like the hundredth time as if that would force Neal to appear. Diana stepped back to his side. "All the members of Banks's band have been accounted for," she said. "I think it's unlikely he was grabbed."

Peter sighed. "Yeah, I know. Dammit, Neal."

"It isn't as if you could have expected him to walk off like that," Diana said. She was projecting _reassurance_ at him. "Sooner or later we're going to find him. Again."

"It's the _or later_ I'm worried about," Peter said grimly. He replayed again the brief minutes in the room-cum-cell Neal had been held in. "He was wary. Didn't seem particularly happy to be rescued. I'm pretty sure he was sick, or getting there."

Diana laid a placating hand on his arm. "We've got a BOLO out for him, and you've got June watching for if he goes home. Peter, _we'll find him_."

Peter sighed, frustrated. "You're right. I know."

They walked past a group of street vendors and Diana brought a photo of Neal up on her phone. "Hey. Any of you seen this man?"

She got a collection of head-shakes, but one man, behind a stand piled high with cut-price electronics, hesitated.

Diana noticed, proffered her phone again towards him. "How about you?"

"I don't want no trouble," the man said. A couple of yellowing bruises on his face suggested that he found it often enough anyway.

"You're not in any," Diana said.

He pursed his lips for a second, and shrugged. "Guy bought a cheap cell, hour or so ago. Paid cash."

Peter rolled his eyes but refrained from commenting on how Neal had almost certainly had no cash on him when he disappeared.

"Did you happen to see where he was headed?"

The vendor nodded. "Into that Starbucks," he said, pointing. He leaned forwards, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "I remember him looking real nervous. Did he kill someone?"

"No," Diana said, firmly. "Thank you for your time." She started walking away quickly and Peter caught up with her.

The coffee shop was crowded. Peter scanned the patrons carefully, but they didn't appear to include Neal. He did a slow circuit, confirming his suspicions, while Diana questioned employees. He waited by the door until she was finished.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Neal was here," Diana said. "He paid for a cup of coffee with a twenty-dollar bill and left the change. The barista over there remembers him talking on his cell, and she says he looked really ill. She's pretty sure he was throwing up in the mens' room."

"That's a lot of detail to remember," Peter commented, and Diana rolled her eyes. 

"Caffrey," she muttered, holding the door open for them to exit through.

Peter smothered a grin. "Okay. We've got a lead. Bets on who he was calling?"

"Do you _have_ Mozzie's number?" Diana asked, and Peter groaned, his phone half out of his pocket. Well, why would this start getting easy for them now?

Then suspicion struck, and he hit speed-dial. "Hi, hon," he said, once he had a connection. "Do you have Mozzie's phone number?"

"Which one?" El asked brightly.

Peter bit back another groan, because he was _completely unsurprised_. "How many have you got? Never mind, just give me all of them."

"Mmm," she said, and he could picture her apologetic smile. "I'm really sorry, but I did promise that I wouldn't share. I can pass on a message, though?"

He gave her their location, and a brief outline of the situation. "I'm worried about Neal. Tell him to call me immediately or get here himself or something. Neither of them are in trouble."

"I'll do my best," she promised.

Peter leant back against the nearest wall. "This is ridiculous."

"We'll find him," Diana repeated. "Peter, even Neal can only get into a limited amount of trouble in a couple of hours. Well, probably."

Peter scanned the crowd to save himself the pessimism of a reply. Because he _was_ worried, and he knew that Diana was too. He could remember the heat of Neal's body through his shirt. All signs, in fact, pointed to Neal being seriously ill, and choosing to go off on a wander through the city for no apparent reason.

He kept his cell in his hand. Mozzie _had_ to call.

In fact, Mozzie appeared — which Peter hadn't really been expecting, despite near demanding it. "What is it, Suit?" he asked, guardedly.

"Where's Neal?" Peter asked.

Mozzie narrowed his eyes. "What makes you think I have that sort of privileged information? And why should I tell you if I did?"

Peter put his hands on his hips. "Seriously, I don't have time for this. I think Neal needs help. And I know he called you earlier on a burn phone."

"Yes, and what did you do to him first?"

"I didn't do anything to him!"

Thankfully, Diana put a steadying hand on Peter's arm and stepped in to give Mozzie the rundown.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Mozzie wanted to know, once she had finished.

Peter raised his eyebrows, and waited.

"Alright, fine." Mozzie raised his hands. "I was in the neighbourhood to check on him when Mrs Suit called. To be honest, he sounded pretty off on the phone."

"Off how?"

"He was almost panicking at one point, and Neal doesn't _do_ panic. He said he was being chased and got frantic when I asked if you knew. Also he wanted to know if you'd called me." Mozzie frowned. "Actually, from your observations, being out of his head with a fever sounds like a distinct possibility."

Great. So they were trying to chase down a paranoid and possibly delirious Neal. And Peter had thought earlier that the hard part was over. "Right. You said you were on your way to check on him — so you know where he is?"

"I have numerous… locations," Mozzie said, looking dubiously between Peter and Diana.

"I'm not in the mood to play secret agent games," Peter said. "Tell us."

Mozzie huffed. "I'll show you," he said. "But don't bother putting surveillance on the place afterwards, Suits."

"Yeah, yeah, you'll clear out as soon as we've contaminated it with our presence. Can we go now?"

"No need to be like that about it," Mozzie muttered, and Diana snorted.

It wasn't far, tucked away in a nondescript apartment building. Peter nearly commented on the ordinary nature of the door, but then where there might once have been a small entrance hallway there was actually a space before another, very obviously reinforced door which had an entry code about double the length of the first one.

"Neal?" Mozzie called, cautiously, as he pushed this one open. "It's me. Moz."

Silence greeted them.

"Is there another way out?" Diana asked, and then caught herself. "Okay, stupid question. Of course there will be."

It took very little time to establish that the other way out (a rope-ladder bolted into the wall so that it could be tossed out of the window above at a moment's notice) had been used.

"Suit."

Peter felt his mouth settle into a grim line as he took in the table top with the disembowelled first aid kit and the gauze pad thick with dried blood. The evidence that Neal had continued to throw up was also all too obvious. This was becoming more and more worrying by the minute.

"Call his burn phone," he ordered.

Mozzie dialled it obediently. A few seconds later the shrill notes of a default ring-tone trilled from between the couch cushions. "Well, that's helpful," he said, which was probably the understatement of the year.

Peter rubbed his forehead. "Okay. We split up, search the area on foot. Diana, call everyone else and tell them. In this state he can't have got too far, but we need to find him _quickly_."

\- o -

Neal is becoming convinced that at some point he made a bad decision. It's just hard to pin it down, especially when nothing in his field of vision will stay still and his head is pounding.

He's not even sure what he's doing. He was running, theoretically still is, but he's blanking on the details of why, exactly, and whether he's running from or to something. The sidewalk tosses under him like the deck of a ship and then it changes to grass under his feet and he keeps going until he slips and falls and the dew is beautifully cool against every inch of his skin.

It's a struggle to move, but he lifts his head and the trees nearby are stretching down their clawed branches to catch him and maybe they're what he's running from so he keeps going, keeps going.

And there's some sort of lake, or pond, with some sort of wooden jetty and he stumbles out onto it because if the trees are trying to catch him then maybe he's safe out here, where they'll drown if they try to grow — except this is wood so maybe he isn't safe after all but he's on his hands and knees, is now sitting slumped against one of the posts, and everything he has is spent, every bit of energy drained and gone, gone, gone.

He tips his head back and closes his eyes.

His name drifts towards him on the evening air. _Neal!_ "Neal!" He hears it, and eventually it registers, but he doesn't do anything about it.

"Neal!" But now it's close, now it's not going away, and he lifts his heavy head up. And there's Peter, saying his name in a tone which is now altogether different. "Neal, don't move."

"Peter," Neal says, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. Peter is chasing him; Peter is finding him. He's looking for Peter. He isn't quite sure which, but in any case Peter being here is _important_.

Peter crouches down, so that they're on the same level, just separated by distance and planking. "You want to tell me what you're doing out there?" he asks.

"It was the trees," Neal tries, but that sounds wrong. "He was going to put you in prison. Was that you?"

"No, Neal, I'm not going to put you in prison," Peter says, and he's speaking very slowly and clearly. "I think you're very sick, and confused. We're going to sort it out but I just need to make a phone call, okay?"

"Okay," Neal agrees, and he watches and half-listens as Peter gets someone on the line and demands EMS and Rescue services. Then he tells Neal that he's been found, or maybe he's telling someone else, because Neal thinks he might know that already. It's difficult to follow.

"Neal?" Peter asks as he hangs up, "Are you still with me?"

"Sorry," Neal says, because if he's supposed to be with Peter then he's not, he's out on the jetty, so he pushes himself back to hands and knees.

"Stop!" Peter barks, and Neal does because it's so unexpected. "Seriously, Neal, _don't move_. That thing's rotting to pieces. Rescue's on its way, we'll have you safe in no time."

So it _is_ the trees after all, bending and crumbling beneath him. Or… something. Peter will make it safe.

"Neal. Neal, please just stay still. You'll be fine, I promise."

"It's fine," Neal says, because he's just realised that getting to Peter is unquestionably _the right thing to do_ , and if he can do that then everything _will_ be fine.

"No, no, it really isn't." Peter sounds afraid, his voice hitching like he's fighting to keep it under control. "Listen to me, that thing is rotted through, it _isn't safe_ and I really don't want to think about whether you're even capable of swimming right now. _Stop_."

Neal keeps moving doggedly, because in front of him is _Peter_ , so of course it's safe. A moment later Peter starts talking to him again, guiding him now, telling him where to place his hands and where to avoid.

Something beneath him _snaps_. He throws his body forwards and Peter's got him under the arms, dragging him out onto the grass. That pulls at the gash on his chest and Neal gasps or shrieks or both and Peter's turned him so he's lying on his back and can see the early stars spinning and spinning and spinning above. And Peter's face eclipses the moon, keeping the wicked clutching branches away and of course he's the _right_ Peter, why was there ever any question?

"Jesus, Neal," Peter says, wonderfully cool fingers pressed against his throat. "What on earth were you doing?"

Neal doesn't know how to answer that so he closes his eyes and turns his head to lean against Peter's thigh.

Peter taps his face. "No, stop that. I need you to stay awake until the paramedics get here. Don't pass out on me now."

Then suddenly Mozzie's there too. "Neal, I can't believe I _helped_ you attempt to get yourself killed. What were you possibly thinking?"

"Stop it, you're upsetting him," Peter says. Somewhat hypocritically.

"Upset _him_? Yeah, _he's_ the one who's upset here. I mean, honestly."

Neal thinks he should say something but he can't make his body or his voice obey. Instead he shuts his eyes, and they all disappear.

\- o -

By the time the paramedics arrived Neal had stopped even sluggishly responding. Peter found it hard to take his fingers from the pulse point on Neal's neck where his heartbeat fluttered desperately, far too fast beneath the furnace heat of his skin.

He only moved when Diana took his shoulder and pulled him gently away so that the medic had room to start an IV. Neal was apparently dangerously dehydrated, which wasn't at all surprising. His eyes were deeply shadowed in the bright light of the ambulance, and he didn't stir at all during the ride to the hospital.

Peter was asked questions, and gave what answers he could. He remembered the dirty gauze in the safe house and one of the medics quickly found the darkly inflamed wound. It looked — well. Bad. _Is he going to be okay?_ he wanted to be asking, but was worried about being a distraction, and it wasn't like he was going to be able to do anything to change the answer.

Neal ended up in a bed in the ICU, which wasn't on the face of it very reassuring, but on the other hand meant that his condition was being taken seriously. Diana brought Peter coffee and some of his paperwork without waiting to be asked, and he felt vaguely embarrassed to be so predictable, but mostly pleased.

He settled down to wait.

Some time later, Neal shifted under the blankets, and flexed the hand which had the IV needle attached. "Don't do that," Peter said, and held Neal's forearm down to make him stop.

Neal blinked a few times, his eyes flitting around the room. "Peter?" His voice was a murmur.

"You're in the hospital," Peter said, reading Neal's confusion. "You've got a high fever, and you're on antibiotics and fluids. You're going to be fine."

"Oh," Neal said, like Peter hadn't told him anything especially important. He looked exhausted, like it was taking vast amounts of energy just to keep his eyes open.

"You should probably go back to sleep," Peter said. He sat back in his chair, to show that he didn't intend to go anywhere.

"Hmm," Neal murmured, and to all intents and purposes did so. Peter was just reaching for the latest report when Neal spoke again, without opening his eyes. "You found me."

"You didn't make it easy," Peter commented.

"Thought… I don't know. You were someone else. You, but different."

Peter raised an eyebrow even though it went unseen. Under the circumstances it had been a surprisingly long speech, and he could glean at least some meaning from it. "Neal," he said, clearly, "I'm not angry with you. You were very ill."

"Was frightened," Neal said, and Peter knew that that was something he would _never_ had admitted if his thinking was clear. And he would probably never forgive Peter if it were mentioned when he was well.

Peter reached over and squeezed Neal's arm. "I'll find you every time," he said. "Be afraid of _that_ , Caffrey."

Neal breathed out a small huff of laughter, and Peter allowed himself a smile of relief.

"Seriously, Neal," he said, sternly, "Go back to sleep."

He was pretty sure that Neal did, but Peter kept his hand where it was just in case.


End file.
